


Harry Potter And The Ghosts Of Christmas

by kcstories



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Divergence, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas fic, Happy Ending, M/M, Post-War, Romance, Written Pre-Deathly Hallows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-17
Updated: 2006-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-27 17:13:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kcstories/pseuds/kcstories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Christmas Carol, Drarry-style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harry Potter And The Ghosts Of Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Ships: Harry/Draco, Ron/Hermione.  
> Warnings: Fluff, sap, mentions of past character deaths, clichés, AU-ish-ness, the shameless butchering of an English classic. Also, written in December 2006 and so by no means DH compliant.  
> Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or anything you recognise from the books (or films). It all belongs to JK Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Inc., Warner Bros., and any other entities involved. This story is based on "A Christmas Carol" by Charles Dickens.

"Humbug," Harry mutters, slamming the front door shut behind him.

He's had more than his fill of Christmas cheer—thank you very much— _and_ of all those pathetically perky people who seem to be absolutely everywhere this time of year. If Harry had his way, being that cheerful in public would be illegal or, at the very least, excruciatingly painful.

"Humbug," he says one more time, just for good measure, and then he hears a loud, scolding voice behind him. "Oh, honestly, Harry!"

Startled, he whips around and regards the portrait on the wall suspiciously. _Impossible,_ he tells himself. Hermione and Ron are alive and well in the south of France, along with their three children; only dead people’s portraits talk.

He shakes his head wearily. He supposes he must have imagined it. His heavy workload at the Ministry is finally getting the better of him.

Sighing deeply, he climbs the stairs. He’ll make himself a nice, soothing cup of tea before he retires to bed, and with any luck, he might actually sleep through Christmas this year.

 

*

 

It has just gone past midnight when a loud crash rudely rouses Harry from his sleep.

Bolting upright in bed, he looks around the room, trying to figure out what’s going on. He scrambles for his glasses and then, in the chair by the window, he spots a human shape. The sight almost makes him scream. _Cedric Diggory?! But that’s… impossible!_

Harry pinches himself in the arm to make sure he's not dreaming.

Alas, no such luck.

"Hello," Cedric says with a smile. He sounds far away, even though he's right there, in the same room. "I'm sure you must be wondering what's happening."

Harry nods slowly.

"See, the thing is, Harry, where I come from, some people are worried about you. Let’s face it, you're not doing terribly well at the moment, are you?”

Harry frowns. "I get by just fine," he says flatly.

"Hm." Cedric doesn't look at all convinced. "Three ghosts will be paying you a visit before dawn,” he continues, unfazed. “I am the first, just in case you hadn't guessed."

"Why?"

“We’re being sent here to lead you towards your destiny."

Harry lets out a humourless laugh. "I defeated Voldemort. I thought _that_ was my destiny. Or wasn't that enough? What more do you want from me?"

Cedric shakes his head. "It's not what _we_ want, Harry. It's what you need and desire for yourself, even if you don’t know it yet."

Harry crosses his arms defiantly. "A quiet and peaceful life," he says, his tone angry and bitter. "That's all I want. That’s all I’ve ever bloody wanted.”

'We'll see…” Cedric utters cryptically. "Now, if you would care to follow me? We don't have much time. And besides, the sooner this is over with, the sooner you can get on with your life."

Harry shrugs. Letting out a resigned sigh, he gets out of bed, puts on his slippers and dressing gown, and trots over to where Cedric is sitting.

He senses a hand on his arm (‘Are you supposed to be able to feel a ghost’s touch?’ he wonders) and before he fully realises what’s going on, he’s standing in the busy living room of the Dursley house.

"Don't worry," Cedric assures him. “They can’t see you.”

Harry looks around. He remembers this; it’s Christmas Eve, well over a decade ago.

Insults and accusations fly, and somewhere in the middle of it all, Harry’s thirteen-year-old self storms up the stairs. In the privacy of his room, he breaks down. He didn’t have a single bite to eat that night, but he tells himself it doesn’t matter. He’s not hungry anyway.

Meanwhile, downstairs, uncle Vernon yells something about his nephew being a terrible freak. The man’s shouting is loud enough for the entire street to hear, as if it suddenly no longer matters to him what his neighbours might think.

Harry flinches. The memory still hurts, even now. He turns to Cedric and snaps, "What the hell did you bring me here for? Isn't it bad enough all that crap happened in the first place? Do you have to rub it in?"

"Tonight's true purpose will be clear eventually,” comes the calm reply, and it's the only answer Harry gets. "Come on, we have another stop to make."

Again, Harry feels Cedric's hand on his shoulder and a few moments later, they’re both standing in the hallway of a stately mansion.

"Where are we?" Harry asks. The place doesn’t look the least bit familiar.

Cedric simply gestures towards the portraits lining the walls. The one right in front of them has a golden plaque underneath it; ‘Abraxis Malfoy.’

_Right,_ Harry thinks, _that's cleared that up then._

"Come along. It's the drawing room we want."

Harry follows Cedric down the hall. Not before long, he hears the unmistakable voice of Lucius Malfoy. The man may be six feet under, back in the real world, but that doesn't make Harry any less angry at the sound of that familiar, haughty drawl.

"That boy is a grave disappointment, Narcissa. For one thing, he is _weak_."

"He's just a child, darling,” the woman says soothingly.

"Narcissa, the Elves served Draco lobster tonight, and he flinched at his plate. He actually _flinched_! If that doesn’t prove to you we're raising a nancy boy, I'd be very interested to learn what would."

"Not to mention,” Lucius rants on relentlessly, "the Mudblood got better grades… _again_. Draco doesn’t seem capable of beating Potter at Quidditch either, not even once! Frankly, he’s really starting to test my patience! Maybe if we sent him to Durmstrang next year, he might actually grow a spine…"

“But, darling…”

"Come on," Cedric says. “There’s more upstairs.”

Harry nods. He follows without a word. On the first floor, they enter the room at the far end of the left corridor. It turns out to be Draco's.

Harry’s former classmate and childhood nemesis, who looks unexpectedly young and vulnerable, is lying in the middle of the bed, crying his heart out.

Harry supposes he should be amused at the sight. A decade ago, he definitely would have been. Now he only feels sad. "I thought Malfoy was a spoiled brat," he says to no one in particular. “I always assumed both his parents adored him and spoiled him rotten and...”

"Things aren't always what they seem," Cedric informs him. “Anyway, it’s about time we went back. We wouldn’t want the other ghosts to get impatient."

With that, everything goes black.

When Harry opens his eyes again, he's back home, tucked up in bed. So this was a dream after all? But how? And why is he still wearing his glasses?

He doesn't get the chance to ponder for very long.

A strong gust of wind blows open the front windows, and a flying carpet comes soaring through them. It's laden with sweets and cakes and in the middle sits Albus Dumbledore. "Lemon Drop?" the old wizard enquires with a smile. "Hop on, Harry, we don't have much time!"

Harry does as he is told. Protesting seems pointless, and he gave up on trying to get a straight answer out of Dumbledore long ago, so he decides not to ask any questions either.

Together, the two of them cut through the skies for what feels like forever and yet no time at all.

They descend on the lawn of a picturesque cottage. The old wizard turns to Harry and beckons him to follow him indoors. Harry’s eyes widen in surprise when he realises whose home this is.

"It's a real pity he can't be here today," Ron remarks sadly.

"Yes." Hermione gives her husband a small smile. “But, you know what he's like about Christmas and family. He hates this time of year, all those awful memories..."

"Yeah, but still... I miss him, Hermione."

"Me too, love. Me too.” She sighs. “I wish he'd give us the chance to give him some nice memories, to try to make up for past horrors, but what can we do? It’s not like we can force him to visit us, and knowing Harry, he definitely wouldn’t thank us if we just showed up unannounced either.”

“No. You’re right.” He smiles and adds, in an attempt to lighten the mood, “As usual.”

She smiles back and tells him, “Go get the kids, love, and make sure Suzie's washed her hands. Lunch is almost ready."

Harry bites his lip. He never knew his absence was so upsetting to his friends, though he supposes he should have realised. The three of them were inseparable back in their Hogwarts days, and now Harry only seems to communicate with Ron and Hermione via the occasional card or Owl. It’s a far cry from the way things used to be.

"Follow me, my boy,” Dumbledore says. “We have one more place to visit."

Soon, Harry finds himself back at Malfoy Manor. The once magnificent gardens are almost completely overgrown, looking terribly neglected. Nature has taken over entirely, and it seems no one can be bothered to care.

Inside the mansion, the first thing Harry notices is that the impressive collection of paintings in the hallway has been taken down, all with the exception of one. Only Narcissa’s portrait remains. Harry spotted it earlier, too: the canvas with the beautiful young woman cradling the chubby baby in her arms, but he didn’t pay much attention to it.

It has him wondering about a few things now, though…

So Malfoy ended up hating his family, did he, apart from his mother? Does that mean he wasn't on Voldemort's side during the war after all? Does that mean anything at all?

Dumbledore gestures towards the living room.

Malfoy’s seated by the fireplace. He’s completely wrapped up in the book he’s reading, and there’s a glass of red wine on the coffee table next to him.

At twenty-six, he doesn't look very different, Harry thinks. His hair's a little longer and his features are more relaxed. He no longer seems as angry as he did back at Hogwarts. Or maybe that's just because he's home alone and so has no reason to put up his guard.

Maybe, if Harry were entirely honest with himself, and if this were something he'd actually allow himself to consider, he would think that Malfoy looked rather attractive. But Harry stopped thinking about those things a long time ago, when everyone he dared to love became an instant target.

He slowly turns around to face his old headmaster. The man is looking at him expectantly, so Harry says the first thing that comes to mind: “All alone on Christmas. Serves the bastard right."

Dumbledore gives him a sad, almost regretful, look in return. "Time to take you back, Harry," he says softly. "I hope Cedric's visit and my own have helped you realise a few things. I fear your next visitor might not be quite as… _benevolent_ as we have been."

Harry shivers, brusquely waking up again, bolting upright in twisted sheets. Then he spots a dark figure next to his bed, looming over him.

"So we meet again.” The man’s voice is dripping with menace and sounds eerily familiar, although Harry can’t quite place it, not until the moonlight that’s streaming through the windows illuminates the third ghost’s face.

Harry gulps hard and bites back a scream.

The third spirit to visit him tonight is none other than Tom Riddle.

"I... I—“ Harry stammers, suddenly wondering whether his Gryffindor courage abandoned him the very minute he left school. "I've seen the past and present, so... I-I guess you're here to show me the future?"

“Nicely deduced. Kindly take hold of my cloak, Harry Potter, so we may get this over with. I don’t intend to suffer your presence for any longer than what is strictly necessary."

Tentatively, Harry reaches out and grabs Riddle's right sleeve. He's vaguely aware of a shift in location before he’s standing in the middle of a cemetery.

Harry shivers. "Where the hell is this?" he enquires, suppressing the urge to scream or run, whichever comes first. Has Riddle brought him here to show him his own grave? That would be just like him, wouldn’t?

"Look at the stone in front of you and find out, Potter,” a deep voice, far deeper than before, says, “If you have enough nerve..."

Harry quickly turns his head around. Gone is Tom Riddle, the sixteen-year-old young man. Instead, there stands the monster, Voldemort.

"Look closer, Harry Potter," the ghost bellows, his red eyes glaring threateningly from underneath his hood.

Harry inhales sharply and slowly walks towards the grave. _We all have to die some day,_ he tells himself. _I'm lucky I even lived this long; and in the end, it's no big deal, really. No expectations, so no great loss._

Standing in front of the tombstone, Harry swallows hard and gathers the necessary courage to look.

The inscription on the plaque isn’t at all what he expected.

 

Draco Malfoy

June 5, 1980 - February 12, 2007

 

Harry's eyes widen in shock. Malfoy's going to die next year? How? Why? And how does this concern him, exactly? And moreover, why does he even care? Because Harry’s shocked to realise that he actually does, to the point where it makes him feel a little queasy.

"This might interest you as well," Voldemort declares, throwing a copy of The Daily Prophet at Harry's feet.

Stunned, Harry bends down to pick it up.

The front page reads:

****  
__  
How The Mighty Will Fall - War Hero Turned Cold Blooded Killer  


_Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived To Defeat You-Know-Who, has been found guilty of the brutal murder of his former classmate, Death Eater’s son Draco Malfoy, earlier this year._

_Despite his plea of temporary insanity, Mr Potter, who appeared to show very little remorse, has been sentenced to serve the remainder of his natural life in Azkaban._

_Hermione Weasley-Granger, a character witness for the defence, said Mr Potter was still so traumatised by the war horrors he had experienced that an unexpected confrontation with Draco Malfoy had sent his mind and his magic spinning out of control._

_“Harry has an unfortunate history with accidental magical mishaps,” Mrs Weasley-Granger claimed tearfully. “We just never imagined it might come to something like this…”_

  


Harry feels the paper slip from his hands. He screams until he’s hoarse.

 

*

Squinting against the bright light, Harry carefully opens his eyes. He quickly glances at the clock. Eight-thirty. _It's morning?_

Feeling oddly refreshed in spite of the bizarre night he’s had, he leaps up out of bed and runs to the window. Down on the street, he sees three carol singers. Throwing his bedroom window wide open, he yells, "Oi, you lot! What day is it?"

"Christmas Day, of course!" the children shout in unison, looking at him as if he's just grown a pair of antlers.

"Thanks!" Harry yells back.

Christmas Day. So he hasn't missed it. _Thank Merlin._

As quickly as he can, he showers and throws on some clothes. He hurries downstairs, grabs some Floo powder and tosses it into the fireplace. "Malfoy Manor!" he calls out.

He's somewhat stunned at how little effort it takes to get in. He briefly wonders if Dumbledore has anything to do with this or whether Malfoy simply doesn't need to bother with Wards anymore.

Harry looks around and realises he's in the drawing room. It hasn’t changed much. He wonders where Draco is. Probably still asleep.

He runs up the stairs and heads straight for the bedroom he assumes is still Malfoy's.

The door makes a loud, creaking noise as it opens.

Draco is sitting up in bed, his wand aimed squarely at his intruder’s chest. "Potter?!” he exclaims. “That _is_ you, isn’t it? What the bloody hell are you doing here? Either leave right this instant, or..."

"No," Harry says, holding his hands up in surrender. "Please, don't... It's Christmas."

Malfoy doesn't look like he has any intention of lowering his wand. "So, the fact that it's the twenty-fifth of December means you can just barge into my home,” he asks with a sneer, “and storm into my bedroom, too, while you’re at it?"

Harry blushes. All things considered, maybe he should have taken the time to think this through a bit more thoroughly. “Um, no,” he says, feeling more awkward by the second, “I suppose not, but..."

"But...?"

"I'm lonely. You're lonely..."

Draco frowns. "I happen to enjoy my own company, Potter."

"I like your company, too," Harry blurts out. "I mean, erm, I would, maybe, if we spent some time together."

Draco shakes his head in bewilderment and at last puts down his wand. "You're nuts, Potter,” he says. “Off your trolley, completely bonkers, two cherries short of a Blackforest Gateau. Give me one good reason not to call the authorities, or perhaps St Mungo’s would be a more appropriate option.” 

"Um. Christmas lunch?" Harry suggests sheepishly.

Draco looks even more stunned than before. "I beg your pardon?"

"I... um... I was wondering if, maybe, you'd like to have Christmas lunch with me," Harry says slowly.

And then Draco laughs. Actually laughs. Because this whole situation is just utterly absurd, isn't?

"All right. Potter," he says. "I don't know why I'm even doing this. Maybe because I’m intrigued, or perhaps your particular brand of insanity is contagious, who knows, but yes, I'll have lunch with you. Now kindly leave the room so I can get dressed."

Harry does, and once he’s standing outside in the corridor, he can’t seem to stop grinning, even if he doesn’t know why.

 

*

It's four in the afternoon when Hermione hears a knock at her front door. When she opens up, she sees an enormous pile of presents, and then she spots the grinning face of her oldest friend.

"Oh my goodness, Harry!" she exclaims. "Ron, look who's here!"

"Um, I didn't exactly come alone," Harry warns. He gestures towards the approaching figure. Hermione's eyes widen. Walking up their garden path is a tall, blond man carrying a huge teddybear. "Good heavens!” she remarks. “Is that Draco Malfoy?"

"What, love?" a voice in the hallway calls out, sounding extremely confused. "Did I just hear you say Harry and _Malfoy_?"

"Yes, Ronald."

Ron blinks and walks to the door. His jaw drops as he looks from Harry to Draco and then back at Harry again. "Oh, what the hell," he finally says, throwing his arms around his best friend. "Really good to see you, mate." Then he turns to Draco and sticks out his hand. "Good afternoon, Malfoy. Happy Christmas.”

Hermione holds her breath. She doesn't have a clue what's going on or why Harry's here with Malfoy, of all people, or why the two of them seem so chummy suddenly. She always suspected Harry didn’t really fancy girls, but for him to end up dating Malfoy?

But well, she reasons, it’s really none of her business and the most important thing is that Harry’s here, that he’s finally come to visit them, for the first time since they moved here, well over three years ago.

When her husband and their old classmate, the one they never got on with (and that’s putting it very mildly indeed) shake hands, Hermione can only smile in relief and be very proud of her husband. He’s no longer the impulsive, hot-tempered boy he was back in their school days.

"Come in," she says. "How have you been? Oh Harry, it's so wonderful to see you again!"

They have tea and biscuits in the sitting room, and Harry and Draco agree to stay for dinner.

At ten o'clock, it seems like the most normal thing in the world when Ron and Draco play a game of chess while Harry and Hermione continue to catch up.

Maybe it's a case of plenty of water under the bridge. Perhaps it's merely the fact that they've all grown up a lot since Hogwarts. Or possibly, the spirit of Christmas got to them.

They don't know and truly, it doesn't really matter either.

When the clock strikes midnight, Harry finds himself being Apparated back to Malfoy Manor. He supposes he shouldn't be surprised when Draco kisses him or asks, in an almost shy whisper, “Stay?”

“Yes,” Harry says softly and then, all of a sudden, everything makes sense.

Harry silently thanks the ghosts for showing him his destiny, because if it hadn't been for them, he certainly wouldn't have come looking for it here.


End file.
